


What's past is prologue

by Army C (arh581958)



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: (small) Ian/Trevor, A box of tissues, A realistic conversatin, Angst, Feels, Free!Mickey, Hurt!Feels, I am telling you to buy tissues, I just needed this okay?, Ian!Feels, M/M, Meeting Again, Mentions of bipolar, Mickey gets out of prison, Mickey on the run, Mickey!Feels, Pining, Post-Prison, Reunions, heartbreaks, runaway!mickey, you'll need tissues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-03
Updated: 2016-12-03
Packaged: 2018-09-06 07:37:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8740690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arh581958/pseuds/Army%20C
Summary: Mickey Milkovich is out and about, and Ian cannot help but be on constant alert for him to come running around the corner. What happens is not what Ian expected. Or: The reunion scene that I just needed to get out there before Episode 10 airs!





	

**Author's Note:**

> Forgive me for I have not been writing too often. My work has been a truck-load. Honestly! A truck load! It's my final year of Uni, and I had hell week for TWO-straight weeks. Please send me love so that I can finish the backlog of gift-fics that I have to write! I just watched episode 9 again and this came pouring out. I hope I'm not too far with the characterization. Please do share with me your thoughts. 
> 
> Loves of Love,   
> Army C
> 
> **SPOILER WARNINGS AT THE BOTTOM**

It happens in the most unexpected place—ever. Having the luxury of growing up in the Southside gives Ian a kind of sixth sense. There’s a feeling at that he’s being watched, the way the hairs rise on the back of his neck and his palms become uncharacteristically sweaty. He _knows_ someone’s out there. It makes his put a shiv inside his boot and his phone always ready to speed dial.

 _Tap. Tap_.

There’s wind.

There’s movement.

There’s a shuffling of bodies.

Then, it’s Trevor’s big doe-like eyes open wide in terror.

“Ian, what the hell?”

Ian flinches. His whole body locks then unlocks, limbs feeling like they’re made of sand. He stares blankly at the white face in front of him. They’re at the station. The weight of a three-day shift rests heavily on his shoulders. It’s going to crush him to the ground at any second.

“I—I—” His tongue sticks to the roof of his mouth. It’s dry like a dessert. One, two steps back. Space is what he needs. “Shit—I gotta leave.”

“Babe, wait!” Tevor’s got his fingers curled into Ian’s sleeve. “Don’t go. There’s…” Whatever he says fades into the night.

“—not tonight.” Ian cuts him off. He jerks out of the shorter boy’s grip, avoiding looking Trevor in the eye. “Sorry. I need to leave. Right now. Go home—shit!” He runs sweaty hands through his damp hair, combing through it and messing it up even more. “Don’t go home. Go to a friend’s house. Yeah? That’s good. Go there. Don’t go home. Don’t go home for a while. Okay? I’ll bring you a bag.”

Trevor looks so shaken up. Ian hates himself for it.

“It’ll be fine,” he says, moving to cup Trevor’s face with both hands, brushing back the curly brown locks. “I’ll explain. I promise. Just—just go to a friend’s house tonight, okay? I’ll call you when it’s safe.”

When Ian walks away, he doesn’t look back to check whether or not Trevor really followed him. He knows that the other man would have his questions but with the danger over their heads no one can be too safe. Instead, he goes straight into the shadows of the building where a pair of icy blue eyes are waiting for him.

“Tch. S’that pussy who you replace me with? Looks like a fucking chick, man.”

Anger should boil up in Ian’s blood. He should be angry at the offensive name for Trevor even if the other man isn’t there. Anger should be the one fueling what he says next but instead all that comes out is a weak-whisper of his voice.

“Shit. _Mickey_.” Ian loathes how much his voice cracks at the name. “What happened to you?”

Mickey hasn’t aged a day in the last eight years. Everything is the same—the same face, the same hair, the same eyes. Mickey’s are crossed casually over his chest but Ian knows about the tattoos that are hidden from sight— _FUCK U-UP_ and _Ian Galagher_ are written on Mickey’s skin like a brand. Mickey’s lips curve into a small smile but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“I told you, Firecrotch, eight years, right? It’s been eight fucking years and I haven’t seen you in, what, like fucking seven? S’tat all the welcome I’m going to get? Tch. Fuck. Mands was right.” He uncrosses his arms to light a cigarette he fished from his pocket. The action causes his arm muscles to ripple and the cut-off shirt to stretch over his chest. It’s like he’s grown impossibly wide but thinner at the same time.

“Mandy?” Ian couldn’t believe his ear. “You talked to Mandy? How’d you even find her? Don’t you know how dangerous that is for her?”

Mickey spits on the ground, nostrils flaring. “Ayy, fuck you. I can talk to my fucking sister if I fucking want. Not ev’ryone lets family rot in prison, asshole.”

The words struck a chord. Ian clenches his hands into tight fists. Alarm bells are ringing in his head but he charges in anyway. “Hey, you know what? Hasn’t it ever occurred to you that I left you for a reason? That I didn’t want to go back there? To be reminded of—of,” _everything I fucked up and everything I couldn’t have_ , “us…?”

A thick blanket of silence falls on them.

The cigarette in Mickey’s hands gets sucked to thin green line, then another’s lit, and then another. Mickey takes the pack and taps the last stick onto his hand. He lights it with practiced ease like he’s been smoking his whole life. Ian can’t help but watch those lips curl around the white paper.

“Yeah,” Mickey breaks the silence with a choked laugh, “Fuck, man. ‘Course I did. I went to prison but I shit ain’t stupid. I got that.”

Then comes the anger, rushing over Ian like a storm surge. It rockets from frigid to lava hot in seconds. Every second of every day that guilt welled up inside him pour out of Ian like a broken faucet. It’s a flurry. It’s a rush. It threatens to overwhelm him that he just might black out. Ian holds on.

“Then why are you even doing here? Why’d you come here?”

Something flashes across Mickey’s eyes but it’s gone a second later. The older man shrugs and leans back against the wall, striking a faux casual pose. His thumb brushes his lower lip in an all too familiar gesture as if he’s trying to hide something.

“Can’t a guy smoke where he wants?”

“In a shadowed alley near my work place? Really, Mickey? Would you stop fucking lying to me?” Ian takes a step closer with every word, more and more of his anger rising to the surface. He’s got Mickey trapped against the cold brick wall, so close that he can scent Mickey’s unwashed scent that should be a day or too old. God, he’s missed it. Their noses are almost pushed together when he asks, “Why the hell did you come here for?”

There’s wind.

There’s movement.

There’s a shuffling of bodies.

Then, there’s Mickey’s mouth on his—soft and tasting like cigarettes—and it’s like Mickey never left.

Ian’s mind may be reeling but his body answers the kiss for him. He opens his mouth and attacks Mickey with his tongue, darting in and licking every crevice that he’s craved for what feels like forever. His hands grab the pale man’s hips, automatically going under the shirt to feel heated skin on skin. They fit together like two pieces of the same jigsaw puzzle.

Mickey moans and deepens the kiss. His hands wrap around Ian’s neck, hands bury into Ian’s hair, tugging and pulling until he’s got their heads angled just the way they both love it. For a moment, they are back to their stupid teenage selves when they would steal kisses in abandoned apartments, in getaway vans, and in a closed-up convenience store right after closing.

Ian’s been denying how much he wanted this. His very soul yearns for Mickey’s touches. It burns away the distance, and burns away the years. All he wants is Mickey right here, right now. He can’t take it anymore. The way Mickey smells like is different than before. There’s no longer a scent of beer that perpetually used to cling is gone, replaced by dirt and grime. But, it’s still Mickey.

Who moves who seems irrelevant.

Ian trails hands up Mickey’s back. Something long and smooth bumps into his fingertips. Mickey freezes. Panic flashes in those blue eyes. Ian’s seem them before. It’s right before Mickey starts to panic. Mickey does panic; although, it’s not quite how Ian expected him to.

“Ease up,” Mickey says softly, nudging Ian gently on the shoulder. All the bravado and the macho display is gone from his demeanor. Instead, he looks strangely vulnerable.

Ian does as he is told.

Mickey takes deep calming breaths, running his hands through his thick mane until black hair sticks out in all places. It kind of reminds Ian of their not-highschool days before Mickey got into the habit of gelling-up his hair. He looks younger but _tired_.

“Shit.” He slumps against the wall with an audible thud. “Fuck, _Ian_ , I—I didn’t come here for this.”

Ian frowns. “Then, why did you?”

Mickey doesn’t answer. “Hey, you taking your meds now, right?”

Ian clenches his jaw. “Yeah.”

Mickey sighs in relief. “That’s—that’s good. Trevor’s… uh… he been a good influence to you, huh?” There are words behind that which remain unsaid. “Shit.” He lets out an awkward chuckle. “Fuck. Don’t answer that. ‘Course he is. He’s all jolly and positive and _good_. You got a decent man.”

“How do you know Trevor’s name? Just—how long have you been around? This wasn’t a coincidence, was it? You’re been watching for a while.”

Mickey looks like a deer in headlight then gives up the game. “Yeah—a couple days—yeah. Wasn’t stalkin’ you or nothin’. I got out. Saw Mandy. Saw _you_. Then, I kinda followed, ayt? No big deal. Didn’t even try to talk to you and your new loverboy. At least it’s no viagroid, right? He’s good for you.”

“Mickey…”

“Nah, man.” Mickey holds up his hand. “Look. I still am shit with feeling and all that crap so you gotta let me say this once, ayt? Don’t talk. Don’t stop me. Then, after, I’ll do whatever you want, ayt?”

A tiny ball of ice starts to freeze in Ian’s head but he nods anyway.

“Good.”

After he’s given freedom to speak, it’s like Mickey grows smaller into himself—hunching his shoulder a little further and lowering his head a little more. It’s like he doesn’t want to be seen. Either that, or he simply wants to disappear completely.

“Come on, Mick, you gonna say somethi—”

“—don’t call me that.”

“What?”

“Mick,” the elder boy clarifies, “Don’t call me Mick. Call me Mickey or Milkovich, or whatever. Just don’t call me Mick, ayt? That’s—that’s not who I am” _to you_ “anymore, ayt?”

Ian wants to say something. He wants to protest. He wants to tell Mickey that he’s wrong but Mickey has other plans. He kicks the balled-up cigarette carton and kicks it to the adjacent wall.

“So you’re an EMT now, huh? Passed Basic and everything. Look at you, Gallagher, still saving lives,” he whistled, “just not the way you imagined but still counts, right? Heard you helped Mandy when she fucked up while I was in the can. I just wanted to say thanks. She’s my lil’ sister, ya know? It’s not the best life but she’s tough. Keeping her out of prison was still the best idea.”

“Mickey, I didn’t—”

“—do it for me? Yeah.” Bitterness colors Mickey’s tone. It cuts Ian sharp like a knife. “Mands and you was friends even before the shit with us happened. But yeah, thanks.” He goes worrying his lip again. “I’m skippin’ town. Best not to stay here while it’s hot. Not gonna be back for a while—a long while. Gotta let things cool down here and get heat off me.”

Crescent marks dig into Ian’s skin.

“Why are you telling me all this?”

Mickey sighs heavily. “Shit. I don’t know. I guess—I just—” He looks at Ian straight in the eye. “You left and it sucked. Not once but twice—first the army and the club, then the thing with Yevgeny. I went out of my mind looking for you. I was worried, man. I know you gotta new life—a second change. I don’t want you fucking that up ‘cause they might come looking for me… through you. At least you know—at least you’re not wondering.”

“I—I—”

Ian can’t speak so Mickey does the speaking for him.

There’s a broken smile that shatters Ian’s heart into a million different pieces.

Ian wants to touch him but he can’t move. So, Mickey touches him instead. With the same hands that fractured so many bones, knuckles that bloodied so many noses, and fingers that broke and healed a few times over, Mickey touches his cheek with a ghost-like gentleness as if he’s nothing but a figment of Ian’s imagination.

“I gotta go,” Mickey says, leaning close but never making contact. He takes Ian’s hand and places it over his chest. Mickey heart beats strong and loud. It’s alive and pumping under Ian’s hand.   _Thu-thud. Thu-thud_. “But this, right here, is staying with me forever. You got what I mean, Firecrotch? It doesn’t matter if you don’t say it back.”

When he moves back, Ian’s left with nothing but the faint warmth still glowing under his fingers. Mickey disappears back into the shadows with only a handful of cigarette butts as proof. Ian stays frozen in the same spot, staring blankly at the long alleyway.

It’s not until the first drops of rain that his tears begin to fall.

**Author's Note:**

> BE READY FOR A HEARTBREAK.


End file.
